A loud bang startles both me and my mother.

She stands and runs a hand through her hair, eyes darting around nervously. I can tell she's been drinking more than just that one glass of cognac since she's wobbly, her eyes red-rimmed and unfocused.

Another fist strikes on the outside of the front door. Mother bites her lip and moves closer to the window, leaning against the heavy embroidered drapes that barely kiss the floors.

"NYPD, open up!"

I shoot her a glance, only to hear the heavy door to my dad's office fall into its lock. Carlisle looks worse for wear, his sandy hair ruffled, jacket discared, his white shirt creased with a bit too unbuttoned to look sharp, no tie.

"Fucking hell," I mutter under my breath.

Dad looks over his shoulder, deep shadows almost swallowing the light out of his bright blue eyes.

"Hello, son," he says calmly. "I guess you couldn't say no to watching the ship sink, could you?"

"That's no—"

"Oh, wait," he goes on, one harsh finger in my direction. "I guess when the cash flow stopped, you didn't know what to do, right? So you follow the money trail backwards and come to visit your parents?" His tone is cold, eyes vicious. If he could, he'd burn a hole through the floor to make me disappear.

It's all he says to me before his dress shoes are the soundtrack to his strides as he walks to the door, four officers and a woman in a suit eager to enter, as if it's Black Friday at one of their favorite department stores.

Mom gasps.

"Mr. Carlisle Cullen," the woman barks. Her hair is as red as a fire extinguisher, pulled tightly into a ponytail, the ends brushing the lapels of her tan blazer. "You are under arrest for embezzlement, tax fraud, money laundering and corruption."

My mother drops her glass, crystal and cognac bleeding onto the floor.

"Don't wait up," is all he says before an officer cuffs my father and takes him with them.

"Mrs. Cullen, we have some questions for you." The redhead enters the house as if she owns it, her patent black heels generic and a tad worn, the toes peeking from under wide-legged trousers that match her jacket. I guess it's all off the rack's clothing, the shoulders a bit too wide for her frame, sleeves dusting her wrists.

"Why are you taking him?" she asks wide-eyed. I'd have thought that Cheryl would have swooped in to clean the mess my mother has made, but no one comes out of the service quarters. Esme Cullen stays graceful nonetheless as her heels squish the crystal into even tinier pieces when she walks over to the imported, Italian loveseat. She sits down, smoothing her silk dress and putting one leg over the other, her heel dangling nervously.

"Mrs. Cullen, your husband committed very serious crimes. You were aware of the investigation against him, right?" The lady asks.

"And you are?" I wonder, pushing myself off the bookcase to my left, eying the redhead suspiciously.

"Detective Hunter, Mr. Cullen." She flashes a badge and arches a brow before sitting down facing my mother.

"So, Mrs. Cullen, were you aware of the pending investigation?" she asks again.

"I wasn't." Mom huffs and throws her hair over her shoulder as she adjusts her posture, sitting up straighter like the New York royalty she is. "Not until the hotel manager in Bora Bora informed me that my credit card had been declined two days in a row."

"This was when?" Red asks, scribbling onto her notepad.

"Three days ago."

"So, then you came home?"

Mother nods.

"My friend, Sue Clearwater, was with me. We used her family's jet to return to New York."

At least my mother hadn't endured the torture of economy airtravel with her high-society bestie.

"And you didn't bother to inform your fucking son of all this?" I ask, anger soaring through me, amplified by alcohol and neglect.

"Sweetheart, I didn't know what to do. Sue was with me until your father told me what happened. I—"

"It didn't cross your mind that I was stuck in France, that I had no way of coming home?" Red looks at me, her brows arched as she assesses my mother's response.

"Well, you did make it home, darling," Mother says.

"Yes, Mr. Cullen. How did you manage to make a trip overseas with frozen bank accounts?"

"My a—, former assistant paid for the plane tickets. I had some cash on me and reimbursed her immediately once we were on the way home."

A moment of silence falls as Detective Hunter continues to write stuff down.

"See, there's always a solution," Mother dares to say to me with a shrug.

"You're so fucking cold, Mother," I bite.

"Watch your tone, son." Heiresses always bite back. I guess it's in their DNA.

"Where were you between February and June of this year, Mrs. Cullen?"

"Switzerland, The Dominican Republic and Bora Bora, with frequent visits to the city," she says like it's what people do. I watch how the detective's eyes widen.

"You did what, during your stay in New York?" she asks.

"Fulfill my social duties, attend fundraisers and parties hosted by my friends." Mother takes another cigarette out of the pearl-encrusted case she keeps them in.

"Could you specify the dates, please, Mrs. Cullen?"

With a roll of her emerald eyes, mom takes out her phone and perches the pair of reading glasses that lay on the coffee table onto the bridge of her nose.

"February fourteenth until the seventeenth I was here. I had a Valentine's Day dinner with my husband, followed by the Mount Sinai Investors Gala on the sixteenth. Then I flew over to Switzerland to stay at Sirocco Cabin. I stayed there until the twelfth of March. Then I came back to the city for about three weeks, I was home the entire time but barely saw Carlisle. You can check downstairs with the doorman."

"And for the rest of the time?"

"Sue and I went to her beach house in The Dominican from April fifth until May 8th. I was at the Women's of The Arts dinner on May 10th, followed by shopping trips and luncheons. I'm a member at SoHo House, and I spend a lot of afternoons at their spa. It's all on the receipts, dear," Mother says overly sweetly. "As you know I just got back from Bora Bora so you'll find everything in that investigation of yours."

"Okay, thanks for that information. Do you have access to your husband's bank accounts?"

Mother laughs bitterly.

"Ah, child," she stands and walks around the loveseat until she's where I stand. "I get my card, my allowance, and that's all I need. No, I don't have access to Carl's bank accounts because frankly, I don't know how many he has." There's a fake smile plastered on my mom's face. Her mask is in full force.

"I assure you," I chime in. "The man's got plenty of bank accounts." As if that's even a secret. Dad is a businessman. He's a fucking billionaire. Of course not every penny is legit. That's why we spend so much. To get rid of the bad money as he calls it.

We all do it, right?

"I assure you that's a thing of the past, Mr. Cullen." The redhead's smile is vile and judgemental. As if I'm in on it.

"Look, Detective," I start. "I just show my face at board meetings, when it's absolutely necessary. I'm not involved in any of the business my dad has going on. I'm just here because I saw the news and I wanted to support my mother."

"Because you didn't have any spending money, you mean," the detective shoots back.

"Whatever. Not my fault you froze the wrong account. Mine has nothing to do with the company."

"I wouldn't say that, sir." She stands, too, her notebook cradled into her palms, head tilted to look me in the eye. "Your trust fund has been built from years upon years of dividend, shares sales and profit your father made."

"So?" I shrug.

"Those profits your father made from fraud, tax evasion. That's criminal money, Mr. Cullen… Too much of it to spend unnoticed." Her eyes glint as if she's getting pleasure out of this.

"So he's behind on taxes, so what? That can be settled."

"No, it cannot. Carlisle is facing jail time, sir. And if we find out you are part of this? Then you can say your preppy little wardrobe goodbye and live in a jumpsuit for a decade or so." This woman is almost as cold as my mother.

"Jail time? Fucking hell, woman, I'm not even in on half his shit. I collect my cheques and I'm out of there. You can check the fucking security tapes for headquarters."

"Time will tell. For now the both of you are innocent until proven guilty."

"Excuse me, Detective," Mother says. "But how are we supposed to get by with our bank accounts frozen?"

The redhead smirks.

"I guess you're gonna have to get a job. Like the rest of us."

Mother looks appalled.

"I have my own money, you know. We married with a contract," she continues with a triumphant smile. "I'm John Platt's daughter, you know. Platt hotels? All over the world?"

"Get yourself a good lawyer. But in your situation," the detective says with a vicious look on her face. "You might have to go the pro-bono route. The house is being repossessed, along with the other real estate on Carlisle's name. The cars too, everything."

"Hey, that's not fair!" I say angrily. My hands are shaking, tight fists hanging by my side. "He insisted on his name being on every fucking thing here. All I have is a fucking Lexus from when I was sixteen."

Even my condo was on Dad's name because he wanted to control the whole fucking world.

"You can drive to the social worker in that, then. Assuming you have some leftover pocket money to pump gas."

"Drive where?" I bite.

"They're expecting you at four. Don't be late." The redhead walks to the front door.

"You need to be out of this house by tomorrow, eight a.m. or you'll be escorted out by the police in cuffs."

I look at my mother, who averts her eyes and inspects the manicure she's sporting as if it'll help her out of this mess.

"Motherfucker." My dad might think he ruled the world, but he sunk us all with him.